Foreign Queen
by Ramzes
Summary: One day, he'll be called King Daeron the Good but now, he's just a young man anxiously waiting to meet his foreign bride. To him, Myriah Martell is only a name and a promise of peace. Will she ever be something more? A part of my Targaryen series.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I disclaim._

**Foreign Queen**

"The ship is coming!" the young squire cried out as soon as he entered the great hall where the nobility of Westeros was having their lunch.

"Are they mad?"

For first time in many a month Daeron could fully agree with his father. The wind was blowing so hard that the gates of the Red Keep started rattling as soon as the servants opened them, so they had had them closed. A ship in the sea… he didn't want to start imagining what that might mean to the passengers. And the weather had been like this in days, it wasn't as if the newcomers couldn't have stopped in one of the ports and waited for it to get better."

Unfortunately, Prince Aegon then said exactly what he shouldn't have. "What are they _thinking_? We are expecting a bride and right now, it looks that Dorne might have sent us a coffin..."

Princess Naerys shuddered and looked at her husband with silent reproach that he, of course, ignored. The Hand glared and started to say something but the King preempted him. "No," he said softly. "The Seven desire this union which will heal the rifts. They're keeping the Princess safe."

Not for a first time, Daeron wondered whether King Baelor really believed what he said. The world was not a place kept happy and protected by the Seven – a simple walk in King's Landing would show this to anyone. Anyone who wasn't Baelor, in fact. He seemed not to notice the hunger, the injustice, the widowed mothers thrown out without means to feed their babes. Or if he did, he believed that prayers and piety would fix everything. _His intentions are good, though,_ Daeron thought. At least they were good. Daeron was less than pleased when his father mocked the King in private or sometimes, even to his face – never in Daeron's grandfather's presence, though – but he could not deny that Aegon was right: for all the love Daeron bore him, Baelor was somewhat off. Daeron respected the King's strive for peace but he could not count on piety alone. Right now, it seemed that the Seven could use an excellent shipmaster to keep Princess Myriah safe.

Myriah…

What did she look like? What _was_ she like? Of course, he'd wed her even if she had had the greyscale, and consider himself lucky. Westeros came first, always. Any marriage that would bring peace with these stubborn Dornishmen was a good thing. And still… soon, he'd meet a woman descended from the very people who had nearly annihilated the army of Westeros. A woman who would be so… foreign, in accent, view of life, manners. Would the two of them would ever be able to get along with each other? Care about each other?

"Your Grace," Viserys Targaryen spoke. "If the Dornish had decided to keep going in such weather, I think we should go to the quay and meet them."

Baelor nodded, as Daeron knew he would. Torn between disgruntlement at being forced to go out in the raging storm and eagerness to see the foreign princess who would one day be their Queen, the lords and ladies headed for the doors.

"Maybe it would be better if you wait here, Lady Mother," Daeron said under his breath to Naerys who was never one to take cold well.

She looked at him and smiled. "And what start of a relationship with my new gooddaughter would that be if I stay here instead of welcoming her? Don't worry, Daeron, I'll be fine."

He looked at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard but Aemon's eyes remained fastened on the King he was guarding. No help from here. Daeron could only hope that his mother's attendants would dress her as best as they could against the wind.

The word had already spread: it seemed that the whole King's Landing was already aware that the Princess was coming; despite the weather, the streets were black with people and the guards had to cut a path, literally, for the King and his entourage.

"So, they are not as mad as I thought them," Aegon murmured when the huge ship did not enter the narrow entry of the port – in this storm it would be a very risky thing. Instead, the ship came to anchor not far away from it and immediately saluted King's Landing with seven salvos.

From the Red Keep, the replying gunfires came.

Tens of barges had been prepared to take the Westerosi nobles to the ships but in this storm, there was little chance that any of them would reach the ship intact. No, they would have to wait until the wind slowed down to formally welcome the Dornish Princess into their city. It couldn't be that long – a few hours, a day at most.

To Daeron, this small delay suddenly seemed longer than all the months of preparations, all the years since when still a child, he'd been told that one day, he'd wed a Martell princess for the good of the realm.

"Your Grace," someone suddenly spoke almost next to him. The Admiral. He was formally addressing the King but everyone knew who he was really turning to. "The weather is not kind to us, I fear but I still feel it's my duty to welcome the Princess and her people to King's Landing, so I ask for your permission to take a boat and go to the ship in your name."

Naerys looked at the storm and shook her head in wonder that anyone would be willing to challenge the wind and the huge waves that shook the rocky coast.

"Are you really so intent of dying?" Aegon asked, mildly interested. "It'll take a while for us to find a new admiral, I fear, so you'd better reconsider that."

Alyn Velaryon was, however, looking at the King's Hand expectantly. Viserys slowly nodded. "I think it fitting," he said and looked at his nephew. "Your Grace?"

"Yes, yes, of course," the King agreed. "We need to show Princess Myriah how welcome she is here and how anxiously we've been waiting for her arrival."

"Astonishingly," Aegon murmured, so only Daeron and Naerys could hear him. "That's two whole sentences without the Seven being mentioned somehow."

Naerys sighed and Daeron clenched his teeth, something that happened to him often in his father's company. Then, he looked at the Admiral, at the raging storm and the proud ship and made a decision all of a sudden.

"I am coming with you, my Lord Admiral," he said.

"No!" his mother said, sharply. "You aren't."

But this time, he paid her no mind. She was the most important woman in his life but there was another one waiting, so close and so far at the same time – another one who he couldn't wait to see, to find out what she was like. Show her that she'd welcome, Baelor had said. Well, Daeron had the chance to show her that.

His father gaped at him, for once dropping his scornful expression. The King smiled. Viserys looked thoughtful, as if he was thorn but finally, he nodded briefly. Naerys' face fell.

"I won't tell you how dangerous it is, Your Grace," the Admiral spoke softly as soon as they were out of earshot, headed for one of the boats. The oarsmen were already there, ready to depart. "I think you can see it for yourself."

"That's right," Daeron agreed, taking in the thunderbolts, the pouring rain, the roar of the sea. He was by no means a man who loved danger and taking risks when none needed to be taken but there were some things a man could do only once in his life. If he missed this chance, he might never get another one.

Now, a mighty cheer rose over the coast: the people of King's Landing loved their kind and thoughtful prince and the Admiral was a war hero, a great man in his own right, so seeing them challenging fate in such way could not fail to get the sympathies of the crowd.

That, however, made their one-hour-long journey – which should have been no longer than half an hour, at most, at any other day – no less cold, wet and, frankly, terrifying. At one moment, the Admiral shove a rope into the Prince's hands before running to the oarsmen to help them. Despite the fact that he had never held such a thing in his life, Daeron didn't let go and didn't even think of questioning Lord Velaryon's authority or taking offence at his tone, about as respectful to Daeron as to the sailors.

"Dayne must be feeling murderous," the Admiral called out, grinning, between two rolls of thunder. "Had he not been for his noble passenger, he would have entered the port but now, he had to act cautiously. He'll feel it keenly."

Yes, if it was up to Alyn Velaryon, Dayne would. It was weird, what the man thought about in the middle of a storm that might cost them their lives. Was it the right time to settle scores with his Dornish counterpart?!...

A new wave came crushing over them but they were now closer to the ship; two boats left it to came to their aid and they boarded the ship wet, shaking and haggard but alive. They were met with a thunderous cheer.

The Dornish Admiral, lord Edric Dayne, came to meet them as soon as they set foot on the deck; slightly surprised, Daeron noticed that he had the fair hair and purple eyes of the Targaryens and Velaryons, although, as far as Daeron knew, the Daynes were not of Valyrian blood. He also saw the look of guarded appreciation that the two Admirals and old rivals gave each other. _They have fought against each other for years,_ he thought. _One day, I'll make them fight together, for further glory of both Westeros and Dorne._

"Your Grace," the Dornishman said. "Welcome to Dorne."

Daeron nodded, deeply impressed by the man's dignity. Maybe there was more to Dornishmen than snake traps?

Maybe there was more to Myriah Martell than a treaty for peace?

He would find out soon.

* * *

**A./N. The idea of a Daeron-centric oneshot just popped into my head a few days ago, so here it is. Bad thing is, it might not be a oneshot – that happens to me pretty often. If there is a second chapter, I think it will be from Myriah's PoV.**

**A/ N. 2. This is a part of my current Targaryen-centric stories. The Death of King features the older Daeron but he isn't the main character.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed.**

_Foreign Queen_

Chapter 2

The entire crew, from the master of the ship to the cooks, had come out to see the two arrivals. The word that one of them was the Targaryen prince himself spread like forest fire and Daeron walked the way to the upper deck between two rows of curious looks and whispers. It was hardly something he was unused to but he had to constantly remind himself that it would not be fitting for him to stare.

At the far end of the desk, there was a canopy with the sun and spear burning bright against the grey sky. There was a huge retinue gathered there and Daeron threw a secret look at everyone… everyone but the two figures sitting under the canopy. He was suddenly too scared to actually have his first look at the one he'd be sharing his life with from now on.

"Your Grace," Lord Dayne said. "May I present my lord, Mors Martell, Prince of Dorne?"

The Martell prince was in his twenties, olive-skinned and lean. He nodded regally and Daeron approved inwardly: the prince was the heir of a current ruler, so it could be only right that he did not bow to Daeron.

"And this is my lady Myriah, Princess of Dorne."

Now, there was no escape: he had to look at her. He looked at her direction and was more than a little pleased to see that she had risen to greet him. Technically, he had entered Dorne at boarding the ship so no one would have considered it bad manners if she had stayed seated. But it felt nice to see that she hadn't.

Myriah's ladies gathered behind her. Stunned, Daeron saw that she was the shortest one of all, not much taller than a child. Yet there was nothing childlike about her figure: she seemed to have all the womanly curves required. She was even slightly on the plump side. Daeron was used to frail looking women of pale hair and violet eyes, dressed in rich velvets and Myrosh lace. His betrothed was nothing like them: under the diamond tiara, her hair was black and curling, her eyes were huge and dark, surrounded by thick eyelashes. Her skin had the soft sheen of a golden fruit. Daeron had never seen such a complexion. For a moment of insanity, he wondered whether the golden powder would fall if he scrubbed her skin hard enough.

She curtsied and he bowed over her hand. Later, he would realize that he might have held it more tightly then required. But Myriah didn't seem to mind. Her hand was warm and slightly shaking – a sign that for all her outward composure, she was just as anxious as him. Suddenly feeling like her protector already, Daeron held her hand a little longer, trying to convey a feeling of security. She smiled gratefully; when he looked at her, she blushed. Stunned, Daeron realized that she didn't do even that like any other woman he knew – her cheeks did not turn rosy or scarlet. Instead, the dark golden tone of her skin deepened and she became… brownish? He looked at her fingers, long and elegant, with the ruby in gold on her fourth finger. The golden powder had not fallen, of course – it was no powder. He looked around stealthily and saw that a few of the other ladies had such a complexion, too.

"My lady," he said. "I am honoured to finally meet you. I wanted to convey to you in person the greetings of King Baelor and my entire family."

She smiled formally, revealing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. "My lord, your welcome makes me feel as if His Grace is here in person and this kingdom is my home."

Her drawl was barely understandable but for a moment, Daeron thought he heard a note of fear in her voice. After all, he only needed to accommodate her in his life. But she… she had left the life as she knew it to come to a new one. To her, everything would be new. It was only normal that it would also be frightening. "It is, my lady," he said. "From now on, your home will be with me and you have my word that I'll make everything in my power to make it to your liking."

Myriah murmured gratitude, although she didn't know if she could quite trust him, of course but there was nothing he could do to reassure her that he meant it. Not yet.

Then, the various members of the Dornish entourage were presented to him. He tried to be as polite as he could given the fact that he was almost shaking in the cold day. But then, they were shaking fully in their heavy cloaks. It made sense – he remembered people talking about how hot it was at Dorne. Even his Uncle Aemon had said that the nicest thing they could do for the Princess would be to install bigger fireplaces in her chambers.

How many Dornish nobles had come to King's Landing, anyway? It looked like half of Dorne had come to celebrate the wedding. More important, how many of them were going to stay? According to his father, the agreed number was too high. _What, she'll be allowed to make a little Dorne here now? _Aegon often murmured, disgruntled. Daeron himself was of the mind that in regards to this particular point, the King had been too agreeable.

"Your Grace," Admiral Velaryon spoke. "It's time for us to go back."

It was a reasonable suggestion because the day was getting darker and the storm fiercer. If they didn't leave now, they soon might be unable to leave at all. "I am ready, my lord Admiral," Daeron said and turned back to make his farewells.

To his surprise, Princess Myriah had risen from her seat. "I am ready," she announced.

Daeron looked at her, astounded. Then, he smiled and she replied with a smile of her own – not a formal one but a smile that lit up her entire face. All of a sudden, she had turned into a beautiful woman. He was irresistibly drawn to the resolution she was accepting her unknown fate with.

Mors Martell looked at his sister and then his admiral. Lord Dayne slowly went close to both Daeron and Myriah. "I humbly beg Your Grace's pardon," he said. "But now, it is impossible for the Princess to go ashore. The weather is too bad. As my lord Velaryon surely knows, this storm is likely to subside in a few hours, so we'll be able to disembark this evening."

"Of course I know that," Alyn Velaryon said without even bothering to hide his irritation. "But there is still time before the storm hits fully. We came here against the wind; I think the Princess won't be in greater danger if she sails down the wind. I have experience and I assure you, she'll be completely safe in my care."

For a moment, Daeron and Myriah's eyes met; in the black depths of hers, he saw an urge to laugh out loud and he shared the sentiment. What Velaryon clearly wanted to say was, _I've been sailing Westerosi seas since before you were weaned, little boy, so you'd better shut up. I can take better care of your princess than you can ever hope to take._ Of course, it was not funny at all – it was hardly the most auspicious beginning of the new alliance – but well… it was amusing to watch.

"I commend your bravery, my lord," Dayne said. "I imagine that you were very willing to convey His Grace's welcomes. And the Prince, of course, was impatient to meet his future lady wife. I'll hold you as a model to my crew. Not to the Princess, though. I promised to my lord the Prince of Dorne that I'd deliver his daughter safe and sound at King's Landing and I'll keep my word."

So much for the much acclaimed peace. _We'll be lucky if we make it to the wedding feast before war breaks out,_ Daeron thought. _What were we thinking, that peace was ever possible!_ He knew Lord Velaryon well enough to know that the Admiral was now regretting the impulse that had driven him to reaction – surely he could not help but see that the weather got worse by the minute. But he could not draw back now – if he did it would look as if his Dornish counterpart was right in his suspicions about Velaryon's ability to deliver Myriah Martell safely ashore. His pride would not allow it.

There was only one way for everyone to come off with flying colours and fortunately, Mors Martell found it. "We'll be honoured if His Grace stays to dine with us," he said. "We could get to know each other better. Of course, the same applies to you, my lord Admiral. And when the day clears, we'll all disembark together.'

This was a chance for both sides to preserve their dignity, so Daeron accepted readily before the Admiral could open his mouth and maybe give some offence without meaning to… or fully meaning to.

"Very well!" Mors Martell clapped his hands. "Then, we'll have you escorted to two cabins so you can prepare yourselves for the feast."

Daeron declined the servant he was offered – prince or not, he could wipe himself dry and change on his own. He accepted the clothes they prepared for him but he would not change his cloak in red and black and he stood near the fireplace so it could dry. It had barely started when the door came ajar and in peeked two big curious eyes. Daeron smiled. "Come in," he said and the boy came in fully. He was richly clad in black and orange and had an air of confidence about him that immediately told Daeron who he was.

"You are Maron Martell, aren't you?" he asked and the boy nodded. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," his visitor announced. He couldn't be more than three but his speech was already quite clear, for a Dornishman anyway. He looked at Daeron up and down and frowned.

"What?" Daeron asked. "What is it?" He didn't have any siblings and he had no experience with children. This one was innerving him, with his grave scrutiny.

"Boys have smooth faces," Maron Martell announced.

Daeron blinked. "Well, yes. And what of that?"

"Old men have no hair and when they do, it's white," Maron went on.

Daeron was still not following him. "Well, yes," he said again and immediately felt stupid.

Maron gave him a last look of inquiry before he gave up. "Are you so very old?" he asked, obviously unsure whether Daeron was a boy or an old man.

Daeron instinctively raised a hand to his hair. Then put it down. Looked at the small face that was so very serious and perplexed. And laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed.**

_Foreign Queen_

Chapter 3

_A few hours later…_

When it was time to go ashore from the barge that had taken them from the ship, Daeron was fairly certain he knew why people had so many children when two or three would suffice: if Maron Martell was anything to go by, they needed as many of those as possible if they were to hope that they steer at least half of them safely to adolescence. Or maybe Dornishmen just didn't do it _right_. Either way, the boy was a danger to himself, with his excitement of traveling so close to the water. He wanted to dip his – too short – hands in the sea. He wanted to ride on the white foam. He wanted to swim. He wanted to jump from the boat because he was sure he'd reach the shore faster than the boat… _Why did they have to bring him along?_ Daeron wondered. _That's a recipe for disaster. There is no way that they'd keep him safe all the time._ If the nursemaid – and in one occasion, Myriah – hadn't been so quick and watchful, Maron would have fallen from the other side of the board at least three times. He was a danger to himself. Daeron could only hope that his children with Myriah would be better-behaved. He couldn't remember any such behavior on his own part as a child. But then, of course, he couldn't remember anything from the time he had been Maron's age. The fact that his children would be half-Dornish was not a great help, either.

Finally, Mors Martell lost patience and snapped an order to his son, just once, but harshly enough to make the boy sit down, albeit it didn't stop him from squirming. _Ah so it is possible, after all,_ Daeron thought, now amused and slightly relieved. If Mors Martell could control his child, Daeron could certainly learn that, also.

Now that the storm had been chased away, everyone, from King to fishermen, was eager to see the foreign bride. The cannons of the Red Keep echoed incessantly; the Dornish ship returned the salutes. In the bright sky, huge clouds of smoke were trying to conceal the sun and failing.

Daeron stepped out of the boat and offered a hand to Myriah; she gathered her skirts in one hand and took his hand with the other with no hesitation. For a moment, her fingers gripped his in painful grasp and Daeron felt the full extent of her fear. But her face betrayed nothing and she recovered so swiftly that he wondered whether he had imagined it. Holding to his hand, Myriah set foot on the land that was still so foreign and new to her but was already her own country.

The crowds cheered wildly and surged forward to get a better look. A shout reverberated in the air, "Long live Myriah! Long live the bride!"

The Princess smiled and looked around, nodding affably. Daeron was surprised when she looked at him and said, "It seems that you are well loved, my lord. It gladdens me to see it."

She had gotten it. She had understood that the joyful welcome was not only because of the novelty of hers or because of the newfound peace. She realized that a part of it was the love that the people of King's Landing bore their young prince. In this moment, they loved her because they loved him. It would fall to her to prove that she was worthy of their love, later. Daeron was pleased to see that she did not lack wits and was not blinded by the crowd's adulation.

The royal family waited safely away from the waterline. Myriah was about to drop a curtsy to Baelor but he waved his unadorned hand. Daeron wondered whether she thought it strange that the King didn't wear even the signet ring, let alone a crown. Would she think that Baelor was truly mad? Surprised, he realized that he wanted Myriah to like the King.

"No, Princess," Baelor said to stop her from curtsying. "We were so eager to receive you. Welcome to Westeros, my lady, and with you, the peace and joy you are bringing us. I hope the Seven give you health and honour among us."

"I hope the Seven keep you in their thoughts, Your Grace," Myriah said without missing a beat.

Aegon rolled his eyes and Daeron saw that she noticed. Her eyes narrowed but it was only for a moment before she focused on Viserys. "My lady, I give you my lord the King's Hand," Daeron said formally and felt his father's eyes drilling holes into his back. Never before had a prince of Westeros wed a princess of an independent state, so there were no precedents in place but it was expected that Daeron would show deference to his kin first and introduce Myriah to them. Baelor would no doubt find it a gesture of peace; Aegon would find it humiliating, as if his weak son was elevating Dorne unjustly. Daeron could practically hear what his father thought: _if you dare to introduce _me_ to the lass, you are in big trouble_.

"I am very honoured to finally meet such an esteemed man as the Hand of the King," Myriah intoned.

Viserys gave her a stern look. He was a very proper man but never the one for court flatteries. "Welcome to Westeros, Princess," he said. He did not find it proper to accept curtsy when the King had refused, so he stepped forward and embraced he, albeit reluctantly and awkwardly. Everyone burst into spontaneous applaud.

Aegon made a step forward before Daeron could lead Myriah to him. "My lady."

_What does he have in mind now_, Daeron wondered. _Can't he just leave me alone, just for today, any day?_

Aegon stared at Myriah hard, making it sure that he expected a curtsy. Myriah graciously reconciled and dropped one with elegance and obedience that made Aegon's rudeness stand out even more. Not that he cared, of course.

"We were so eager to receive you," he repeated the King's words but his tone gave them another meaning altogether. 'We were so scared that the decision to fight the storm might prove a fatal one. We are very relieved to see you here, finally," he finished his not so veiled insult against Myriah's countrymen's sound judgment and looked her up and down, as if she were a mare he had just brought.

"So you should," Myriah said, loud enough to be heard by everyone around. Her chin went up. "It isn't every day that Westeros has the chance to marry Dorne."

Aegon gaped in the most undignified way. Naerys gasped. Viserys made a step forward. "Spoken like a true princess," he said and shot his son a glare before switching his focus back to Myriah. "And now, if my grandson doesn't protest, I'll give you his mother. My daughter couldn't wait to meet you. None of us could."

Only the fact that Daeron knew his mother so well let him know how shocked she was. Obviously, Myriah was nothing like she had envisioned – in looks, in manners, in everything. But Naerys hid her feelings behind two kisses for welcome and a warm smile. "Welcome home, my dear," she said. "We've been waiting for you for so long."

Next came the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who bowed to Myriah deeply and respectfully. "It will be my honour to do your bidding, Princess," he assured her. She shocked the court further by actually extending her hand for him to kiss. Prince Aemon recovered immediately and followed the instruction. Daeron noticed that he did not bring the hand to his lips but bowed his head to it instead. Myriah smiled, warmly and unexpectedly; surprised, Daeron saw his uncle smiling back. The Dragonknight _never_ smiled at anyone but Daeron and Naerys. Not like this, anyway. Not as if he meant it.

His slight delay in releasing the dark hand showed Daeron that Myriah Martell had just found her first friend in King's Landing.

"Well," the King spoke. "Let's go and have the festivities begin."

At Viserys' sign, the cannons started firing anew. The crowds roared in delight and started gathering in two lines along the road. When Myriah and her companions reached the Red Keep, all fountains in the city would start spouting wine, so everyone could take part in the festivities – yet another reason the populace loved such events.

Daeron led Myriah to a magnificent white mare with saddle and harness adorned with gems. She let him assist her and mounted the animal with ease that showed Daeron that she was an experienced rider. The only one female rider he knew was Daena, poor Daena locked in her vault.

"I am sorry," he murmured as he was giving Myriah the reins. "About… I am sorry."

_Sorry for not protecting you, for not speaking out against him,_ he wanted to say. Yet, how could he? How could he admit that he had been incapable of shielding her because it had been drilled into him that he should defer to his father, as obnoxious as Aegon was? His mother, his grandfather, his attendants in his first years – everyone had repeated that. Aegon took advantage of it and it seemed that he was not above using it to humiliate Myriah, too. Before Daeron could think of a way to intervene, Myriah had rescued herself.

She smiled and touched his hand in quick reassurance. "It's all right," she whispered, immediately knowing what he meant. "Aegon Targaryen doesn't scare me. And besides, I liked your mother, and your grandfather and uncle, and the King, also. That makes four out of five."

Daeron looked at her, dreading that he'd find a spark of disdain in her eyes but there was none. He was surprised at how relieved he was. He hadn't realized how desperately he wanted her to like him.

As he was mounting his own horse before the two of them led the procession, riding on a rich carpet of scarlet, he thought that marital life would obviously include much more obstacles than he had anticipated. He would have to learn to be a better man if he wanted to make a good husband. And he now realized that despite all his efforts to prepare himself, he still had no idea how to be a husband.


	4. Chapter 4

**As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed. You keep me willing to write.**

**Foreign Queen**

Chapter 4

_A week later…_

Myriah Martell sat in front of the fireplace, shivering in her heavy Westerosi gown, and willed her hands to stop shaking as she was pouring tea for herself and her future godmother. In the back of the room, Lady Ilena Allyrion smiled at her to show that Myriah was doing well. Like Myriah, Ilena had been taught to Westerosi customs, dress style and all proper observances, so she could serve the Princess at court when Myriah became Westerosi's princess and later, queen.

"Would you like to call for the maids to add some wood to the fire?" Naerys Targaryen asked politely and Myriah shook her head.

"I am not cold at all," she lied. She could see that should the chamber became a shade warmer, Naerys might faint. For all of the elder woman's purported frailty, the robust Myriah certainly felt that she was the one whose health was in jeopardy. And this was not even the worst of winter, they said. Myriah couldn't wrap her mind around the idea that it might become colder. "Is it normal here for the fire to burn day and night, or is it just because of me?" she asked.

Naerys smiled. "It's up to each if us, child. When we feel cold, we light the fire. When we are hot, we extinguish it. No one wants for anyone to get ill."

Well, that was a relief. Myriah returned the smile, wondering how small and thin her future goodmother was. In fact, Naerys was a bit taller than Myriah but she was so reed-thin that she looked as if she would break. Her gown of golden brocade was too richly embroidered and made her look smaller. But now, with her cheeks flushed by the warmth, her beauty was clearly visible. Maybe Myriah's daughter, if she did have one, would take after her grandmother. That wouldn't be a bad thing but for certain, Myriah would make sure that any child of hers would actually eat. If they made it to the end of the meeting without Naerys fainting, Myriah would consider it a success.

"So, Myriah," Naerys asked. "Tell me about your childhood. Tell me about Dorne."

Myriah started talking, hesitantly at first, for she didn't know how Naerys would accept some of their customs; but later, when she saw that the elder woman looked genuinely interested, she relaxed and her words started pouring more freely. Naerys looked amazed when she heard about the sands that would move into a whirlwind. "A storm of sand!" she exclaimed. "Really? All this soft sand whirling all around you?"

Myriah laughed. "Not quite. Sand is not soft in a sandstorm. No, not at all. It bites, and stings, and hurts one's eyes. Sand is dangerous."

_And are you dangerous,_ Naerys wondered. The girl looked all softness and smiles, yet she had parried Aegon's insult without batting an eyelid. He was still fuming about that to anyone who would listen. Could Myriah turn out to be dangerous for Daeron? He seemed infatuated with her but maybe it was only because she was so new, so different. If Myriah played her cards wisely, she could have a great sway with Daeron. _And I should stay aside_, Naerys reminded herself. Still, the look in her son's eyes whenever he spoke of his betrothed caused her pain, as shamed as she was even to think about that. She was no longer the most important woman in Daeron's life and that hurt. Of course, she wanted him to be happy, to hold his new wife in high esteem. She hadn't expected the little worm of jealousy and prayed extra long every day to the Mother to release her from it.

The girl in the back of the room brought them a new jug of tea. When she was about to retire, Naerys stopped her. "You are one of my future daughter's companions, aren't you?"

"I am, Your Grace," the girl confirmed, and Naerys smiled invitingly.

"Then you should sit with us. What's your name?"

"Ilena Allyrion is one of my closest friends, Your Grace," Myriah said. "She excels in everything she tries her hand in. She sews better than me and she's invaluable when I need to choose my attire. I am very happy to have her in King's Landing, with me."

"It seems that you are," Naerys agreed, wondering how Myriah would react if Aegon had his way and their future gooddaughter was left alone in her new home. It seemed that Myriah would not give up on Lady Ilena without a fight. The perspective of Dornish influence at court was rapidly becoming a reality but Naerys had no right to complain: after all, she hadn't given Daeron a sister to wed.

Naturally, went without saying that Myriah would arrange a proper match for her friend as soon as she became settled in her new surroundings. That shouldn't be difficult since Ilena was very lovely, with the purple eyes that Naerys hadn't seen in anyone but her own family and the Velaryons. Her hair might be the matching silver-gold but it was hidden beneath a bonnet. Naerys tried not to stare because it was rude.

Myriah was grateful for that because hair was a sore matter for Ilena. About a year ago, after fighting a fever she hadn't expected to survive, she had woken up to find out that at combing her hair, it had all fallen out. How she had wept! Of course, her hair was already growing back, and thicker at that, but it would be a good few years before it was recovered to its brilliance.

So the three women talked about sewing, gowns and different rites at court, very careful not to utter the words _Daeron the Young Dragon_, _conquest_, _Lord Tyrell_, or _vipers_. As well-meaning as they were, it would be months or maybe years before they could feel fully comfortable around each other.

Peace had a long way to go.

* * *

_Three days later…_

The constant presence of a white-cloaked knight behind her whenever she left her chambers was starting to make her anxious. She was not even wed to Daeron Targaryen yet but everyone seemed to expect of her to take the Kingsguard in stride. Still, this time it was the Dragonknight who accompanied her and after the first few steps she felt silly, walking a few steps ahead of him as if he were a stranger and not a member of her soon-to-be family. "Would you mind to walk beside me, Your Grace?" she said.

"Lord Commander, Princess," he corrected and fell in step, offering her his arm to lean onto. "We leave behind all our titles when we don the white," he explained.

"Yes," Myriah said. "I know."

They made a few steps without talking. But the silence was not uncomfortable. Myriah studied his hard profile, the austerely cut off fair hair and the purple eyes that were constantly looking around, careful not to miss anything. The arm holding hers was gentle, obviously Prince Aemon hadn't left his courtly manners behind when he had donned the white, yet Myriah felt sure that he'd have no difficulty in reaching for his sword if need be.

"You are so watchful," she said. "Surely we aren't in danger here, in the middle of the Red Keep?"

He didn't hesitate. "We're taking all precautionary measures, Princess, but there are still those who believe that Daeron should have wed one of the daughters of our own great Houses."

Myriah's eyebrows rose. "And they are ready to facilitate that if they arrange, say, something to happen to his current betrothed?"

Aemon shrugged.

"Is this the moment when I'm supposed to shriek and faint?" Myriah asked with great interest.

His mouth quirked. "You've just missed the moment. Next time, just faint. Don't ask beforehand."

"I'll remember this," Myriah promised. "How cold it is!"

"I'm afraid it isn't the worst of it," Aemon said. "Would you like to go to the glass gardens now?"

She beamed. She had never seen a glass garden before and she was very curious. "Yes, please."

"May I accompany you?" someone asked from behind them. "For the Father's sake, Aemon, take this sword back in."

Yes, she had been right. He had taken the sword out before she could fully register that they weren't alone.

"I am sorry, my lord," Aemon apologized. "I didn't realize it was you."

His father waved a dismissive hand and closed the door he had just come out of. "I am glad to see that our bride is so well guarded," he said. "I was meeting with the High Septon," he said. "It seems that you'll have the honour of being wed by the King himself, my lady," he turned to Myriah.

To her credit, she didn't let her surprise show. "I will be honoured," she said smoothly as they walked toward the glass gardens.

The Hand of the King didn't quite snort but it was obvious that he was annoyed – with the King, not Myriah. "You aren't an easy one to stun, are you? I hope my grandson will appreciate you half as much as I do, Myriah Martell."

"Then maybe it's Your Grace whom I should wed," she replied immediately and cursed her quick tongue as soon as the words came out. The Hand was a stern and austere man who was a stranger to the art of courtly humour and flirt and she had just done exactly what she shouldn't have. Viserys looked at her in disbelief.

And then, to both her and his son's amazement, he smiled and shook his head. "You're too late," he said. "I am too old to lose my head over a woman, even you. You should have arrived ten years ago, and we might have come out with something."

She smiled, delighted. If the Dragonknight reaction was anything to go by, he had never known that his father was not entirely inept in courtly flirtation with a woman. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard for the Targaryens to accept her.

"Look," Aemon suddenly said. "It's Daeron, I think."

Myriah immediately turned her head to see and didn't notice the meaningful looks the two men exchanged behind her back.

A few minutes later, it was Daeron leading her toward the glass gardens, Aemon having fallen discreetly behind. With the processions, pageants, and receptions that had been taking place without a break since her arrival, Myriah had seen her husband to be no more than five times and had not spoken to him at all. She burned with desire to find out whether he had meant what his words and gestures had promised her that first day, whether he found her as pleasing as she found him, or he would have preferred a marble maiden with silver hair and purple eyes, someone like Ilena – not that Ilena would ever accept to be Myriah's husband's paramour but still. But she could not _ask_ him…

"It seems that someone found the swing," Daeron said. "The children from the palace love those," he went on and Myriah looked at the swing hanging from one of the trees far away. She smiled when she recognized the boy sitting on the plank.

"I wondered why he still hadn't come to pester me for today," she said and smiled again when her nephew stood up, just when the swing was at its highest point in the air, and with a battle cry flew straight into his father's arms.

Daeron, though, was not so pleased. He blanched so terribly that for a moment, Myriah thought he was having some kind of seizure. But then she understood. "What's wrong, Daeron? This is but a children's game! When I was Maron's age, I also jumped from the swing into my father's arms."

"What if he had stepped back?" Daeron asked sharply, still unable to believe in the happy end.

"Step back?" Myriah started, astounded. "And let Maron fall on the ground?"

She paused. "Has no one played with you when you were a child?" she asked, very softly.

"Not like this," he said. "And now, the glass gardens?" he asked and turned his back to the swing before the two Martells could give him a fright once again.

Myriah nodded silently, trying to blink the sudden tears away. This was not the life she wanted for herself. Not the life she wanted for the children she would have. Suddenly, the magnificence of the Red Keep felt like prison walls getting close on her.


	5. Chapter 5

**As always, thanks to all my reviewers, you keep me going.**

_Foreign Queen_

Chapter 5

_Five days later…_

The Great Sept of Baelor shone with thousands of torches and candles in the golden candelabra but they lost a part of their glow when the ascending sun threw its first rays through the doors that were held wide open. It was somewhat unusual but King Baelor had insisted on the wedding taking place outside, just near the entrance. Daeron and Myriah had accepted eagerly. They didn't mind the people of King's Landing seeing them exchange their vows, take part in their joy. The peace with Dorne was certainly something deserving of celebration and they wouldn't deprive the smallfolk of seeing the union that would cement it.

From the small hours of the morning, the street and squares leading to Visenya's Hill had started filling with people – artisans, merchants, women with their brood, whores, soldiers in their leather armours, old men and women with their sticks, adroit pickpockets who were now winning a year of wages alike were shoving each other, trying to find a better place. When the two wedding processions had come, they had been preceded from men at-arms cleaning the road –they couldn't have passed otherwise.

"I, Daeron, take you, Myriah, to my wedded wife..."

The Prince's voice was so loud and clear, so rotund that it carried effortlessly all around the top of the hill, over the thousands of heads. Everyone looked at Daeron, startled. Even Prince Aegon lost his bored hauteur and looked at his son, astounded. On the raised platform, undet the canopies with the standards of Westeros and Dorne, Daeron who still hadn't celebrated his seventeenth nameday, was now giving his pledge to the fifteen-year-old Myriah. He sounded… well, he sounded like a man.

"I pledge my love and loyalty to you and I forsake all others…"

The whispers of the crowd ceased little by little. The young voice carried further yet. Daeron was reciting the long vow he had memorized last night, the one every man following the Faith in King's Landing gave the woman he chose for companion. Yet it sounded like something Daeron was composing at the moment – he made it sound so meaningful, as if it were something created just for him and the Dornish Princess.

"I wrap you in my protection and I give you my esteem…"

Slowly, Mors Martell stepped forward and removed the cloak with the sun and spear from his sister's shoulders; Daeron affixed the Targaryen one, astounded by the certainty of his own hands; but the shoulders under his fingers shuddered. Was she scared? He hoped she wasn't.

"And I swear all this to you…"

Everyone stared silently at the couple, at Daeron's silver-gold hair and fair complexion and Myriah's olive skin and the ringlets of dark hair, so black that it looked almost blue. Each in their own way, they both looked as foreign and different from the crowd as humanly possible, yet in this moment, there was no woman – a young bride, a shy maiden, a seasoned whore, an old crone, a cheated wife – who did not feel as if she were in the bride's place. There was no man who did not identify himself with the young Prince. Daeron was wedding all women in the kingdom that would one day be his. And the entire Westeros chose Myriah for a companion in life. Everyone wanted to have a taste of a happiness that looked perfect.

Daeron could feel the crowd's excitement but he did not look at the people. He was staring intently at the girl in velvet and lace, with the Targaryen cloak around her that he was giving his pledge to.

She was still new and different to him, now even more so. The red veil made her dark complexion stand out even more, the brownish blush on her cheeks evident. But even as flustered and moved as she was, there was something to her that he had trouble recognizing at first, for he was not accustomed to it. But it was there each time she met his eyes.

Warmth. Just for him.

Naerys was fighting her tears and praying to the Seven to give her son a lasting happiness. Aegon was still squinting at Daeron, wondering could it be that he was finally turning into a man. King Baelor looked blissful as he was officiating at the ceremony, as if he could taste the peace he had worked so hard for. The Hand of the King looked stiff and formal as usual, but there was a hint of a smile each time he looked at the newlyweds. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was constantly looking around, alert, his hand at his sword, ready to defy any danger that might spring out of somewhere.

Once the ceremony was over, the King headed for the sept to pray for the Seven's blessing. The lords and ladies who had not been invited to stand on the platform with the royal family and the Small Council, as well as the members of the Great Houses, waited there. Myriah had never seen the inside of the sept and looked around with great curiosity, marveling at the wealth amassed in it. Fortunately, the veil hid her indecent staring.

Some movement of a few septons and septas drew her attention. They were flattening themselves against a wall. "What are they doing?" she whispered to Daeron.

He chuckled. "They are convinced that the moment an abomination like me, born to brother and sister, enters the holy sept, the Seven will send a lightning and incinerate everyone standing too close to me," he whispered back.

Myriah looked at him, unsure whether to believe him; but when she saw the holy men and women looking from Daeron to the ornate ceiling and back and looking properly disappointed, she couldn't help herself: she squeezed his hand and laughed. He looked at her twinkling eyes and laughed, too. Behind them, a wave of whispering rippled through their train, interpreting the omen. Surely a marriage starting with laughter could not be anything but a happy and enduring one?

* * *

_In the night…_

"Mother help me, this is barbaric!"

That was Myriah's greeting for Daeron as he turned to close the door, pushing some very excited ladies firmly outside. "Try to hit some of them in the nose!" Myriah hissed in half-whisper.

She was shaking, stripped to her smallclothes and beyond. He looked aside from her lady parts, clearly visible in the candlelight. Her swarthy face was as white as the moon outside. On her left breast, a huge hand had left a red five-fingered mark. Daeron shook his head, wondering whether he could find out who the offender was. _And if I find out, then what?_ he wondered. Bedding was an old custom and brides had seldom took it well. Daeron certainly hadn't enjoyed his part. But at least he hadn't been squeezed.

He made a step toward her and she wrapped her arms around herself but her fingers curved like claws, her eyes gleaming like a cornered lioness'. Daeron poured a goblet of water and left it on a nearby table. Still looking at him warily, she held out a hand, took the goblet and drank. "I am sorry," she said in small voice. "I am sorry I'm behaving like this. It's just that I… I didn't expect it to be so wicked."

"Wicked it was," he agreed. "May I come near?" he asked after a while.

She considered this and nodded, her composure slowly coming back to her.

He made a step toward her.

In this moment, someone opened the door. _How could I not latch it_, Daeron berated himself as he threw on a robe and walked to the door. "Kill them, whoever they are!" Myriah snapped from the alcove, obviously driven to the end of her endurance.

There was a brief silence. A moment later, Daeron said, "I think I'd better not. You seem quite fond of him, my lady. Are you tucked in?" he added and came near, leading the intruder by the hand.

"Maron," Myriah sighed and shook her head. "I should have known."

"Are you ill?" the boy asked her and came near. "I saw they carried you out and you looked ill."

"I'm sorry, Myriah, I just let him escape for a minute! You little scoundrel, come here. My apologies, Your Grace."

It was Mors Martell. He was gasping for breath and Daeron could hardly restrain his laughter at the image of this huge man running upstairs to rein his son in.

"I'd rather have it that you came a few minutes earlier," Myriah said from the bed. "Off with you. Both of you!"

He turned and left, clutching Maron's hand quite tightly. The boy did not complain, though. Myriah laughed. "I can feel that someone's going to have a good warming," she said.

Daeron looked at her, terrified. "He beats the child?"

Myriah rolled her eyes. There was no need for Daeron to sound like Maron was running around black and blue.

If anything, this little episode had made the shock of the bedding go away. Daeron came near and Myriah lifted the bedcovers.

* * *

_In the morning…_

"Come on, open your eyes. Come on."

"No."

"Open them," he cajoled. "I want to show you something."

"I want to sleep..."

"You can sleep later. Just a moment, I promise."

Myriah opened a bleary eye – just one, so she could go back to sleep if what he wanted to show her turned out not to be so interesting, after all. She moaned softly – the pain from the first bedding was still there but she had been prepared. She knew that the first few times, it would hurt. Later, though… it would depend on her to make it enjoyable… or not.

"No, you must come out of bed."

Myriah was almost awake now but she refused to leave the bed. "To step on the cold floor?" she asked and gave the soft carpets a very suspicious look. "You want me to die from cold? You swore an oath to protect me!"

He brought on some slippers – not her own, for hers had been lost to an especially rough knight last night – and waited. Myriah sighed and disentangled herself from the covers. Daeron put the slippers on her feet. "Come on," he said. "I want to show you something truly wonderful."

She stood up and he wrapped her in a fur cloak. Then, he led her to the balcony, pushed the curtain back and opened the door. Myriah shivered.

"There," Daeron said, and Myriah gasped.

In front of her, there was a sandstorm of tiny white petals that filled the early morning and cut the dusk, landed on the rails and floor, covered the courtyard below. It smelled fresh and sharp, and invigorating. Myriah felt a smile on delight spreading over her face. "Snow," she whispered. "That must be snow."

Daeron nodded, smiling at her reverance.

"Snow," Myriah said again, wonder in her voice. "I always wondered what it looked like."

She held out a hand, caught a petal, watched it melt. Then, all of a sudden, she poked her head out and tried to catch a snowflake on her tongue. Daeron laughed. "I thought you were cold?" he said, and she grinned.

"This was before," she said. Between the snow, the beauty of it, and the fact that Daeron had wished to show it to her, she was no longer cold. At all.


	6. Chapter 6

**As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed.**

_Foreign Queen_

Chapter 6

_A year later…_

The tears were running silently down Myriah's cheeks, choking her. In a bout of sudden, uncontrollable anger, she threw her mirror against the wall and the copper in silvery frame clanked off. Ilena hurried off to fetch it but didn't bring it back to her lady – Myriah was better off not seeing the rusty-red spots dotting her face and neck.

"Won't he get born already?" Myriah asked, anger and despair fighting for dominance. She had no doubt that her babe would be a boy – they all needed a boy, the septas and maesters they consulted all said it would be a boy. Westeros and Dorne needed a boy. Myriah needed a son to strengthen her position and stop being perceived as a hated foreigner. But did that mean that this child should turn her into a monster? She was already scared out of her wits that her body would never recover, that it would stay forever distorted in this horrendous shape. But now her son had also started disfiguring her face. Daeron assured her that she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever set his eyes upon. She did not believe him, of course. She got anxious when he did as much as talk to another woman. He was Prince Aegon's son, after all, and Aegon was notorious for his trysts.

"It's too early, my lady, you still have a month to go," Ilena said, as she always did, as if Myriah wasn't counting the weeks and days until she would be able to see her feet, finally. "It's normal. Lelia says the spots would disappear once you give birth."

"I hope so," Myriah huffed and snuggled in her blanket. Normal or not, she had another woman with child to compare herself to – and she always came up the loser. Lately, Daena Targaryen had been allowed to venture out of her vault for the sake of her soon to be born babe – and she looked more glamorous than ever. Every woman carried differently but that did not mean that Myriah had to like the situation. _Or maybe she just doesn't have much of a choice,_ she thought all of a sudden. For all the dislike Myriah evoked in some with her very presence, her child was eagerly anticipated and loved at court already. She was spoiled and tended to so much that sometimes she wanted to scream. She did scream – at Daeron, who, in all honesty, was not to blame that her favourite gown no longer fit her, or that she had to sit with her feet up because of the swelling, or that she still had trouble holding her meals sometimes, or now with those spots on her face… But he was there and he tolerated her. The man who had fathered Daena's child, though, was nowhere around. Her pregnancy was an embarrassment to everyone. She needed to be strong, for there was no one to be strong for her.

Still, Myriah would have felt better, had Daena not been so radiant while expecting. She didn't want to be here, in a court where so many eyes gauged her and found her lacking. She didn't want to endure her goodfather's ill will and her goodmother's unfaltering piety and niceness that made her feel her own inadequacies all the more. She wanted to go home…

"My lady, we need to attire you for dinner," Ilena said.

Myriah silently shook her head no.

* * *

_The next day…_

"The Princess doesn't receive any visitors. Your Grace," the lad added as an afterthought.

The King's Hand narrowed his eyes at him. The dark-haired boy shrugged apologetically but did not remove himself from the door. "I am not any visitor," Viserys Targaryen said.

The Dornish lad nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. That's why I'll go in and ask her whether she'd like to receive you."

Viserys' face hardened. The boy was talking as if Myriah was already a queen. Baelor _had_ been too kind in letting her keep her Dornish retinue. It was obvious that this lad acknowledged only his Princess' wishes.

And still… he could understand what the young one was saying when only a few months ago it would have been impossible. The people in Myriah's train had taken great pains to adopt the King's Landing accent and as a result, they no longer sat in a group by themselves in a great hall but were scattered among the Westerosi folk. Maybe in this case, Baelor's kindness was not so unjustified.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The boy's eyes glinted with something that was long forgotten for Viserys. Something familiar. Something that was lost when the lad looked aside for a brief moment before looking straight in the Hand's eyes. "I am Garyn Sand, Your Grace."

A bastard. Daeron's bride had actually brought a bastard to King's Landing. And her father had let her. How could the peace hold when Myriah gave such offence to all that was customary and honourable in Westeros?

"Very well. Then go and tell your lady I want to pay her a visit, Garyn Sand," he said and settled in a deep red chair to make it clear that he wasn't going anywhere. This was the heir of Westeros that was to be born and if this bunch of Dornishmen thought they could hide any problems from Viserys…

The boy was already at the double doors, his hand dark against the oak when it came back to Viserys. Daeron, of course, Daeron at age fourteen, Daeron when Viserys had patiently explained to him why his great plans for conquest could not come to a long-term fruition.

"My lady is not ready for visitors," a woman spoke next to Viserys. He had seen her a few times with Myriah in the gardens. Now, her words confirmed his fears. He had bad experience when it came to women with children. His lady wife had not carried her last babe to term and Naerys was still sickly. Naerys herself had almost died of starvation, unable to hold her food down before Daeron was born. The fact that Myriah had not left her chambers in a while and turned every visitor back was not a good sign.

"Why?" he asked harshly. "Is there a problem we should know about?"

The woman shook her head, unsmiling and not trying in any way to alleviate her concerns. Still, her air of calm competence suddenly made him relax. Here was a woman who wouldn't let her mistress or the child suffer any difficulty that could be resolved.

"I know who you are," he said. "Myriah's wetnurse, yes? You've been with her for her entire life."

The woman nodded. She seemed to have celebrated around forty namedays and looked quite stern, with her dark hair pulled up in a severe bun and the perpetual resolve cast on her features. No beauty to her at all. No female softness. She met the Hand's eyes and held them for a moment before lowering her own. "That's right, Your Grace," she said. "And I assure you, there's nothing wrong with my lady or the babe. She's just tired and willing for it to end."

Viserys believed her. His long experience with people had taught him to read behind their words. Myriah was obviously miserable and overstating her difficulties but she was in no immediate danger of something bad happening.

She curtsied. "I'll go now, Your Grace, if you will."

"Wait," he stopped her. "Do you know a boy by the name of Garyn Sand?"

She was obviously surprised. "My son," she said, guardedly.

_The Seven help me, it gets worse,_ he thought. Had the Dornish lost their mind? How could they have sent to King's Landing a woman with a bastard child? How could have they let her stay near Myriah at all? Was it a provocation? A deliberate slight?

The woman's expression suddenly changed to something that startled Viserys so much that he was rendered speechless. Rage. Darkness that she made no effort of concealing. A sea of bitter hatred.

"I've always heard you were a wise and shrewd man, Your Grace," she spat. "Why don't you make the calculations? My son is _not_ the child I nursed alongside the Princess. He's younger. He's seen barely thirteen namedays. Can't you guess?"

He could and he did. And he looked aside. "Does his father have a name?" he asked, trying to regain his composure in the face of her outrage.

She laughed, loud, and mocking, and angry. Her hands were shaking with helpless ire. "How would I know? He might be the man who finished my children off. Or the other one, he who set my house on fire. Or the one who slew my husband on the battlefield. It was hardly one who ran over Sunspear and Dorne… I conceived by the conquest, just so you know… Your Grace… Are you really the one to be repulsed by the conquest?"

She was not sobbing – she was hissing the words out like one of the snakes her land was famous for. Viserys looked aside from her burning eyes, feeling irrationally guilty, as if he had personally advised Daeron for that ill-considered campaign of his. As if she were someone worthy of such feelings on his part. Dornishmen had been the enemy… and she was smallfolk. Just Myriah's wetnurse and nothing more. There was nothing for him to feel guilty over. Nothing.

He stood up. "I'll go now," he said and turned to leave. "If your lady requires something, let me know. I'll give orders for you to be admitted immediately."

Myriah's chambers were on the first floor; while he was leaving, he heard her voice through the slightly ajar window. She was saying something to Daeron who laughed; a minute later, she laughed too and kept chatting away. In the garden, the Targaryen looking lady of Myriah's entourage was strolling with one of Daeron's companions, smiling and giving him coy looks. He, in turn, openly admired the perfect oval of her face.

The wounds were too deep for people from Viserys' generation to heal; but maybe, it could be otherwise for the young ones.

* * *

_A month later…_

"Haven't you given birth already?" Prince Aegon asked when he came back from his hunting trip. His words might have sounded like genuine interest, had it not been for the disgust in the look he now slid all over Myriah's bloated body.

She smiled and hoped he hadn't heard her teeth grind. She intended to give him a barb right back but when she opened her mouth, the words that came out were not it. "I have. I just hid the babe in my chambers and tied a pillow to my belly so I could waddle about a bit longer and answer foolish questions."

Aegon stared at her, stunned into speechlessness. Behind him, his brother sighed. With a stung of regret, Myriah realized that the Dragonknight did not look surprised in the least. He had seen worse in the last few weeks.

The pain that shot through her was so sudden that she gasped and reeled. A moment later, Aegon's strong arms were holding her safely to her feet and she saw his wide purple eyes right before hers. For first time, she realized that they were like Daeron's, maybe because they were, for once, full of concern instead of mocking superiority. "What now?" he asked.

The pain receded, to come back a few moments later, much stronger than the constant pains shooting through her for the last two weeks. She almost managed a smile. "What comes next now, you mean, my lord? I think it's your grandson's birth."

"Can you walk?" he asked and looked around for his brother. Between the two of them, Myriah headed slowly for her chambers, scared and elated, and very unready for what would surely be the most important work in her life.

* * *

_A day later…_

When she opened her eyes, Daeron was sitting next to the bed, holding her hand. Just the effort to move her head and look at him pained her.

"Do you want me to tell you?" he asked softly.

She licked her lips and summoned her courage. "Yes."

"It's a boy!"

She broke into sobs.

Daeron stood up and went into the adjacent chamber. Myriah ventured a look downward and noticed with displeasure that her belly was still as big as before giving birth. Septas and maesters had warned her that it would take some time for it to subside but she had hoped…

All thoughts of her appearance vanished when Daeron placed the babe in her arms. She stared at the little boy and then at Daeron. "But he's so ugly!" she cried and saw how he relaxed.

"Oh I'm so happy you're saying it!" her husband said. "I was wondering whether it was only me who thought so. Everyone is so thrilled, I didn't dare say that he was ugly… and I thought maybe it was normal for babes…"

Myriah cuddled the little bundle to her. He felt nice. Warm. Staring at her fascinated. She was so happy that he was here and he was healthy… but he was ugly. Hairy. Even his ears had hair! She nuzzled his nose with hers and Daeron held both of them. "I am so lucky to have you," he whispered and then he sat on her bed and they began discussing the matter of how they could get better used to a child that looked so uncomely.

At the door, Lelia smiled and took Ilena away. The girl had been allowed to attend Myriah's labour and it had been a mistake, in Lelia's opinion. She would have been better off not knowing what awaited her one day. At the end, she had looked as if she had given birth herself.

"I am so happy that Prince Baelor is here," Ilena said for about a hundredth time. "And that he's healthy, and my lady is healthy. And he will become more comely with time, you say? You are sure?"

Myriah's wetnurse patted the girl's hand. Had she been this young and inexperienced once? Of course she had.

She could now go and have some rest. The babe was safely here and Myriah had not bled too much. All was well. She could let her lady and the Prince to enjoy their new son and fret about his looks all they liked.

And she would not think of the other, of the one she saw in the fires and sands that her gift showed fate in, of the one who would be born soon, and of the life threads so tangled and knotted that they could not be torn asunder for a lifetime, for over a century. She would not think of a war as terrible as the Conquest of Dorne itself, and all those who would die, and the rivers of blood that would flow up to the stars and beyond.


	7. Chapter 7

**As always, a big thank you to everyone who reviewed.**

_Foreign Queen_

Chapter 7

_A few months later…_

"Come on, what is it that you want? Tell me… He doesn't answer," Myriah told Daeron, smiling.

"Well, I imagine he'd have to learn to talk first."

It was a rare event for Daeron to answer to her this sharply. Myriah's eyebrows shot but she didn't say anything. Instead, she turned back to Baelor and kept talking to him. Soon, his disgruntlement went off and he started smiling at her.

Daeron shook his head, tiredly. Myriah's nosy nursemaid who hovered nearby, ready to take the babe if Myriah became dizzy, something that happened to her quite often nowadays – in fact, more often than in her first pregnancy – huffed and gave him a belligerent look. She was also on the little bore's side. Everyone was on his side – Myriah, Daeron's mother. His grandfather, even! Everyone crowded around the tiny squealer - or rather, the not so tiny squealer. Sure, it was all good and nice that he was healthy and he had certainly started looking better these days – the hairs had fallen off his ears and he had even started to turn proportional, instead of being mostly head – but he was still a bundle of cries for attention and Myriah was ready to reply whenever she wasn't busy being sick. She had no time for Daeron any more. They were barely alone – she insisted that Baelor be there when she was feeling good. Naerys was even worse – she had turned into a doting grandmother and all she ever spoke about, except for religion, was the babe. And the King's Hand was the final straw – he actually came to their chambers and held the little crier, to Baelor's apparent delight. Daeron rarely had any desire to and frankly, neither did Baelor – as soon as he felt that it was his father holding him, he would start screaming his head off. It had nothing to do with repairing the peace in the kingdom – it was grown and responsible people turning into fools as soon as a babe smiled at them toothlessly. No one seemed to read Baelor's thoughts as Daeron did. The babe's face was quite expressive and Daeron could practically see what he'd say as soon as he started talking… _"Mother, Mother, look at me commanding Grandmother. I've set her on singing to me… This dog looks fluffy… well, it is fluffy… oh when will I be able to start plucking his fur off? I am not sleepy, so stop rocking me. I said, I am not sleepy, I am not… Why should one start shouting to be taken notice of and understood here?"_ Daeron knew these were Baelor's thoughts, yet no one else did. Instead, they treated him like something pure and fragile, instead of the pester he was. Maybe things would get better when Baelor grew up a little but for now, he was just a bother. A bother Myriah was too attached to.

"Let him rest in his own chambers, Myriah," he said. "He needs to rely on others and not you alone. You won't be available at all times to him. The new babe will…"

She looked up. "But the babe is not here yet. This child is here now." She paused, her eyes thoughtful, alert. "You don't love him, do you?" she suddenly asked.

Daeron blinked. He had gotten accustomed to her outspoken ways but this time, she had taken him by the surprise. "What? Don't be ridiculous, of course I love him…"

She looked at the small head, dark like hers. Her voice was subdued. "Sometimes, I wonder…"

The worst thing was, sometimes Daeron also wondered. In the two years after the Dornish ship boarded, he had come to love Myriah with all the strenght of his young and fierce heart but Baelor... he wondered.

A knock at the door, and a maid announced the arrival of Princess Naerys. Baelor's eyes lit up as soon as he saw his grandmother and he raised his hands for her to take him. She gave Myriah a present – a small box with some lotion that Daeron had no idea as to the purpose of but his wife obviously valued. Then, Naerys turned her attention to Baelor. "Look who we have here," she crooned. "Our very big boy. Come here. Come to me, right?"

He gurgled. She was about to take him when the Dornish nursemain intervened. "Leave the child where he us, Your Grace," she said.

Naerys looked stunned. Apart from her husband, no one had ever thought of giving her orders or telling her what not to do. She looked at Daeron, then Myriah and finally the woman who looked very calm, as if she hadn't overstepped her boundaries enormously. 'What's the meaning of this?" she finally asked, the devout septa falling away to the wroth of an offended queen – or a queen in waiting, as she most certainly was. "Is this a Dornish way of addressing royalty?" she added and immediately wished to take her words back. Of course, it was too late.

"It certainly isn't the way Dornishmen and women would like to address a Targaryen, Your Grace," Myriah said, her tone icy, the joy of playing with her babe suddenly soured. These little jabs hurt her more than she cared to admit, especially when they came from those she had come to like and trust – Daeron, Naerys. They did it unwittingly and that hurt more than Aegon's barbs because it showed that she was still not accepted, her land and her people not respected. Not fully. She knew all too well how people at Sunspear spoke about children born to Dornish women and Westerosi soldiers, children of hurt and helplessness, children of rape and survival, children of conquest. She squeezed Baelor so tight that he wailed and she immediately relaxed her grip. Was this how people would speak of her children one day – Baelor and the one who was still to be born? _Ah these. They are not of Westeros, they are Dornishmen…_ "Or would you like to hear how we addressed your revered cousin, the Young Dragon?"

Naerys looked down. "No."

"I didn't think you would. Rest assured that we address everyone by their merit… and we know how to treat our children, something that Westerosi mothers of good birth obviously fail to impart in their own children."

Somehow, she made _good birth_ sound like _disgusting incest_. Daeron and Naerys both stared at her, dumbfounded. She glared back.

"You shouldn't pick the child up," Lelia said, still addressing Naerys and seemingly oblivious to the conflict she had caused. "You have to take care of your own little one now."

Naerys stared at her. She did not understand. And then she did. Her hand immediately went to her flat belly under the white gown. "You are wrong."

The Dornishwoman shook her head, offended. The silence in Myriah's solar was heavy and full of questions and doubts. "I am not. You are with child, my lady."

"I am not," Naerys snapped even as she was counting the days in her head. Lately, Aegon had been seeking her bed more than usual and she had admitted him as a wife should. But it was impossible!

"Quite the contrary," Lelia countered.

Baelor made a sound as if he was trying to repeat the word without much success. At another time, they would have laughed at his clumsy attempts at speaking. But not now. "I am too old for childbearing," Naerys said.

The woman just gave her a pitying look. Naerys should take offense once again but this time, she was beyond that. "My lady, correct me if I am wrong but you are barely thirty-odd, right? It isn't at all unusual for ladies your age to get with child."

"But these are women with many children!" Naerys cried. "I never had a child after Daeron. You must be wrong."

Lelia shrugged. She seemed to feel that she had done her duty – she had informed the Princess about her condition. If the silly woman wanted to risk her own babe's wellbeing, well, that was hardly Lelia's business.

Once again, Baelor raised his hands for Naerys to pick him up.

She didn't.

"Well," Myriah muttered, "it seems we'll have to retrain him." As young as he was, Baelor knew his mother never picked him up. He was carried to her. They needed to teach him that with Naerys, too, it seemed.

A new knock. "Come in," Daeron said, and Lady Ilena entered and started talking to Myriah in low voice.

"What?" the Princess asked, as if she had not heard right. "Are you sure?"

The girl nodded. Myriah turned to the others and was about to speak when a huge cry from the outside preemptied her and rattled the windows. The hallways suddenly resonated with the sound of hundred of feet running. All bells in the Maegor's Hold started ringing, followed by each bell in the Red Keep and Visenya's Hill, and then the city. "The King is dead! The King is dead!"

"May the Seven hold him," Daeron said softly and cursed himself for the sinful anger he felt at Baelor – really, fasting himself to death! What had he been _thinking_?

Myriah looked down and stroked her son's head unconsciously, as if to steady herself. "I am sure they will," she murmured. "He spent his entire life serving them."

"He could have chosen a better day for dying," Lelia snarled, all more sharply because of the contrast with Myriah and Daeron's words. But truly, was she supposed to be pretend that the Targaryen king had been devout? He had been befuddled, that's what he had been. And his death had exacerbated the visions that had been dancing into the flames for her as soon as she had realized that Princess Naerys was with child. This babe would be both cursed and blessed, linked to blood and bloom, devastation and flourishing. And death.

Naerys, it seemed, had picked up on the Dornishwoman's meaning. She might not believe she was with child, but her hands certainly did: they went to her belly, as if to protect the babe from the cries.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed.**

_Foreign Queen_

Chapter 8

_A month later…_

When Myriah opened her eyes, the sun was already flooding like a river through the slit between the curtains. She looked up and slowly maneuvered her growing body to one side to check the other side of the bed.

There was no imprints of another body in the covers. The pillow was annoyingly fluffy. Last night she had thrown Daeron out and he had not even tried to sneak back later. She felt miserable and neglected but this feeling could not break the nice languor brought up by her pregnancy. Without bothering to turn back, she went back to sleep on her side. This time, the babe was agreeable and obviously decided that it was time to take a nap, so Myriah slept for a good while and when she woke up, she had no desire to get up.

Lelia's brisk voice intruded on her thoughts or the lack thereof. "Good morning, my lady. I trust you slept well? It's almost midday."

Midday… With horror, Myriah realized that she had been supposed to break her fast with her goodmother. She told that to Lelia and curled up in a ball as tightly as she could – this belly was certainly in the way; she had been so happy to get rid of it only to have it back only five months after Baelor's birth, - feeling immensely sorry for herself.

While the Maester was checking her pulse and her attendants opened the windows and went to the clothes' press for a gown, Lelia stood glowering. When the Maester proclaimed that Her Grace was in great health and left, with her permission, Myriah leaned against the pillows and closed her eyes. "Where is my lord husband?" she asked.

"If he's half as smart as I perceive him to be, he must have gone half the way to the North already," Lelia huffed.

With a groan, Myriah raised herself on her elbow. "What is it now?" she asked tiredly, still there was a terse tone in her voice. Her Dornish attendants looked at each other, no doubt aware what would happen now; but Myriah would rather avoid setting the entire Red Keep talking, yet knew she was powerless to prevent it. She suppressed her irritation that Lelia dared create such uproar in front of the Westerosi's ladies who hovered nearby, visibly preoccupied with setting things in Myriah's bedchamber in order but actually very intrigued, their ears as big as castles.

"He runs away from you and in truth, I cannot blame him," Lelia snapped. "You've become insufferable, my lady. This and that, petty whims and no thoughts reaching farther than your chambers or Prince Baelor's nursery and gossiping with all those ladies. You were able to hold a conversation on a different topic than courtly gossip and infant drool, before. When was the last time you left your bedchamber?"

Myriah clenched her teeth. Her patience was reaching its limits when it came to her nursemaid's recriminations. "Lelia, Her Grace is with child," Ilena said, trying to mend the situation. "She often gets tired."

"Often gets tired, she says!" Lelia had no intention to let herself be distracted. "When _isn't_ she tired? Who did we bring from Dorne here? Something between a good mare and a useless King's Landing's lady? Princesses of Dorne do not spend weeks in seclusion in their chambers when they are healthy. She was brought up to play a role, not sit here and mope all day when she isn't trading gossips with other women."

Myriah bristled. Anger made her rise quickly to stare at Lelia from her not too impressive height. "Enough! I will not be spoken to as if I were a child!"

Right now, she did look like a child to Lelia. The girl had no idea what she was getting herself into. The new King's coming to the throne meant changes in Westeros and Myriah had to champion the Dornish cause, the peace, the very reason she had been brought here to be Prince Daeron's bride. She had left their land of heat, and sand, and blood oranges for this cold place of stones and glass gardens to be queen one day, a guarantee for peace in all times. The life of a useless court lady was not one she had been born for; a woman of her rank should not content herself with the joys of motherhood, as great as they were. It was a peasant women's job; Myriah had greater obligations, yet she wanted to play mother when she needed to play a queen. Technically, there was no queen now, for King Viserys' lady wife had died long ago; by all laws and customs, Princess Naerys should hold precedence over all ladies of the land but frail and sickly as she was at the best of times, she was now preoccupied with trying to keep her pregnancy safe. Because of that, Myriah was now the principal lady at court, the Princess; instead of utilizing her position and actually doing something meaningful, she spent her time in her chambers, with little Baelor, or chatting with the ladies. Now, Lelia was sorry that she had pretended not to see when Myriah secretly nursed her son. The Princess' duty was carrying her children to term and give birth to them, nothing more. She had more important tasks ahead of her: she should assert herself before one or another of Prince Aegon's mistresses took over. For now, the King was fond of her and she held some sway with him but it would not last, should he deem her unworthy of consideration other than that of a complacent wife.

There was no running away from the facts, as much as Lelia hated to admit it: her vibrant, intelligent girl was turning into a boring matron, a Westerosi noble lady. There was nothing of her Dornish fierceness left. No doubt she would come back to herself once the child was born but by then, it might already be late. In the critical moment of forging ties with Dorne, Myriah was putting on airs, indulging herself in idling in a pregnancy that was as straightforward as one might get, and basically squandering her chances. Lelia could not let it happen.

"Let's get you properly attired, my lady," she said.

The thought of suffering the long process of being dressed and primped tired Myriah already before they even started. "Not now," she said, defiantly. "Now, I'll have a little rest." And she snuggled back in bed.

Lelia exploded. "That crowns all! When has a princess of Dorne ever slept her life away, let alone getting tired from… being tired? You are not a useless lady wife; you are a princess of Dorne and a princess of Westeros and you have certain responsibilities that for now, you're neglecting shamefully."

She had gone too far. Myriah half-rose in bed and glared at her. "That's enough. Now, get out of my sight."

"Right now," the woman snarled, "I'll happily go back to Dorne."

"I'll gladly pay for your passage," Myriah retaliated.

Her older Dornish ladies looked at her reproachfully bit the Westerosi attendants were stunned, looking from Myriah to Lelia and back. Myriah leaned back against her pillows and sighed. In truth, she and her nursemaid needed a respite from each other, very much. Lelia refused to realize that Myriah was no longer a little girl and could make her own decisions. She would not tolerate any reproach right now, vocal or not. For a while, she would accommodate Lelia and the others in a suite of rooms somewhere in the Red Keep… as far away from her chambers as possible. And when her fatigue wore down, maybe they'd be able to have a decent conversation once again. She was fond of Lelia and did not want to see her go. She just didn't want her nursemaid interfering so much and she most certainly didn't want Lelia scolding her in front of others, as if she were still a child.

The solution was perfect. Lelia wouldn't find it so but Myriah would have to learn to be a queen and not a child. And she would start now.


End file.
